I Said I'd Always Protect You
by ItsShezzaBlad
Summary: They haven't seen each other in two months and their lives are slowly disintegrating into the abyss so can they save each other's lives in time? POST HIS LAST VOW, AU WHERE JOHN DOESN'T FORGIVE MARY. Rated T for drug use, a bit of strong language and some very slight gore. JOHNLOCK FLUFF.
1. Separation

John had been here for exactly 35 hours, 12 minutes and 21 seconds. He knew for how long but the real question was why. Why was he willingly slouching in the asphyxiating, sterile hospital room for days on end sitting by the woman who had betrayed and lied to him since day one? Why was he allowing himself to feel sorry for her as she writhed in pain? Why did his to-be-newly born daughter have to be born premature? Why was his life falling apart?

His tired head lolled up against the plastic-y wall as Mary gripped his hand and he dreamt of black front doors and spray painted smiley faces and ducking under blue police tape. He's seen none for over two months and he was getting agitated.

_Two Months Ago…_

_Bring bring, bring bring! _It wasn't a contact saved to his phone but he recognised the number. Mary. A few weeks after they separated he'd deleted the number; she hadn't phoned since. Until now. Her rattling breaths echoed through John's head as she unsuccessfully concealed her sobs that John needed to come over to discuss legal matters regarding the baby's home and school.

"Mary, what's really going on" John's voice was softer than he'd wanted, he couldn't' be angry with Mary forever, he realised. Mary's shoddily maintained smokescreen shattered as she burst out sobbing and pleading for John to just come over and that she'd explain.

As she opened the door, it was as if the phone hadn't happened at all. She was friendly, too friendly, like they were just a couple of mates, hanging out. Sceptical, John sat down in her sparsely furnished front room (She'd allowed him to take most of their furniture out of guilt) and confronted the blonde about their conversation earlier.

"I'm sorry, John. I was… just panicking and everything was overwhelming me I just… needed to cry a bit. Sorry that you were there to witness it, heh."

"You're looking away and picking at the skin between your thumb and forefinger. You're lying, come on. Spill"

"That bloody Sherlock, he's got you deduc-"

"Oh! You meant the one you shot?"

Mary looked down.

"John, I'm sorry. I never in a million years—"

"Okay, Okay. Just tell me what's wrong" John reassured exasperatedly.

"I'm ill. They say it's unlikely that I'll live through the birth." A tear dropped into her lap.

Without saying anything, John got up and enveloped his ex-wife in a rigid hug; it was completely detached but he hoped that she would stop crying at least. They sat down and Mary began to explain the circumstances while John ran his hand through her short tresses.

John ended up staying in the spare room for few days; Mary said that it would be practical to finish up all the paperwork but John saw that she was scared. He'd never seen her as scared as the day her disguise was removed in Leinster Gardens. The day John left her.

The army doctor tried his best to keep conversation to a minimum and only about their daughter, Caitlyn. His life was colourless and dismal as he carried out the same routine day after day: wake up in ex-wife's home, go to work and take on extra work after, return to Mary's flat to staple and sign, sleep. This happened again and again and again until the fateful five-in-the-morning.

"John, I'm having the baby!"

"But she's not due for another month!"

"I know!"

Now as John Watson held the clammy hand of the woman he wanted nothing to do with and his ears annihilated by the whir and the beeps of the machinery keeping her alive piece by piece, he could think of nothing that he wouldn't do to undo the three years of his life.

"John…" Mary breathed shakily. She looked awful; her usually bright hair was lifeless and limp and her face was grey. Her ashy skin was fractured with jagged crow's feet engraved by lack of sleep.

"You've been here for days…"

"So have you." He replied curtly.

"I'm okay, I have a whole medical team with me. You're not. Go outside for some fresh air, please"

"B-"

"Please John. We're not even together. You don't have to."

John reviewed the past two months in his head. Meeting no-one except his co-workers and doing nothing but work. Suddenly, a thought popped into his head. _Sherlock. _He hadn't been with him for so long! He needed to make sure he wasn't overworking himself too much on the Moriarty case- at least he wasn't bored though. That could be disastrous.

"Okay." He reached down to kiss her on the cheek then got out his phone to text his best friend. _Out of Charge. _It must've been like that for days without him noticing. Never mind, Sherlock could only be in two places, 221b or Scotland Yard. He betted on the former. John Watson left the room.

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It had been two month since John had left. He tried to understand the situation but he couldn't so Sherlock dumped the answer into the catch-all of sentiment. He was no closer to finding Moriarty than the day his plane was turned around because of the bone chilling taunt he had sent. He was getting anxious.

He hadn't spoken to anyone since John left too, Sherlock realised. He thought his skull was the perfect company but even he couldn't deny that hearing another human's voice was pleasant. _Doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Just. The. Work._

The gaunt detective faced the wall upon which was decorated with an armour of maps, headshots and files. Any passer-by would think that he was some sort of omniscient mastermind; anyone who could understand would see that he was grasping for straws.

There was nothing. Nothing at all. No taunting clues, no strange occurrences. _What the hell is Moriarty doing?! _

"You really are thick aren't you…? Ha-ha!"

Sherlock spun round to see a translucent, dark haired, Westwood decorated young man with a mouth full of laughter and tortured eyes. Blinking hard, Sherlock opened his eyes to find Jim Moriarty gone. _If the body hasn't experienced REM sleep in four days, it starts to hallucinate. Just ignore it; it's all transport. All that matters is the work._

"Don't ignore me, sweetie. I don't like to be ignored…"

"Shut… up…" He growled as he returned to his work.

"Oh darling, you really are stupid. Why don't you just give up now? The joke's run dry I'm afraid…"

"I said… Shut up!"

The voice began to grow harsher and lost its Irish lilt.

"You always were so stupid. Why even pretend? You're… Just… A… Freak…"

Mycroft waltzed around the room with the aid of his umbrella. Taken aback, It took a few moments for Sherlock to adjust to his concentration.

"Freak. Psychopath. Boring." Sherlock growled as he covered his ears with his hands and let the names ricochet around his head.

"You… Machine." He looked up. John stood in front of him, eyes glistening.

"Look at you. You are just a waste of space really, aren't you?"

"J-John N-n-no!" Sherlock's voice quivered.

"You're a bloody psychopath and I have never loved you. You've just been a funny little distraction but I've got on with my life. Why don't you get on with yours? Oh yes… That's right! You don't have one. Machines… Don't… Have… Lives…"

John's ghostly apparition disappeared out of the door. He always does that. In the dreams, walks out. That's why he stopped sleeping.

As he sobbed into the crook of his arm on the floor, Sherlock evaluated his life. He really was a psychopath. And a freak. John was his heart, his moral compass, he brought warmth and laughter into his analytical and chrome being and now he's gone. All he has left is his mind.

He looked up at the wall. _You are stupid. You can't solve this case. You can't do anything! You're just the condescending junkie who knows a bit of chemistry. You're stupid. You're worthless. You're a psychopath. You're a freak. You're a machine. You're an addict. Still the addict._

He sent the text and broke down the drywall. _Just an addict._

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_BaBRIIIING. _Greg Lestrade put down his morning coffee. God knew he needed one, today was going to be a boring day. He picked up his phone. _Sherlock. Oh thank god, I was getting worried about that kid!_ He opened the message.

Thank you for everything, Greg

-SH

Greg was at a loss for words. _Was he drunk or something? _Then it hit him. The four words that made his stomach drop into bottomless pit. GREG. Something was up. Something big.

"SHERLOCK?" The butch detective hammered at the door. _Oh god, please don't let him have done something stupid. _After sighing in exasperation, he leaped up at the door shoulder-first and stumbled into the now opened doorway. Bounding up the stairs 3 at a time, panic and dread dispersed into every fragment of his body. As he pushed open the door of 221b, his heart skipped a beat. Alarm were scrambling his senses as he let his body bound towards the frail man's strewn and limp body on the floor.

He found a pulse, _Thank god, _but it was thready and shallow. He was breathing too, so far so good then. Whipping out his phone, Lestrade instinctively dialled John but it rang out. _Shit!_

"Sherlock please. Sherlock! Wake up!" He pleaded to no avail. There wasn't a whole lot he could do for a man he didn't know what happened to but remembering and ancient mandatory first aid course, he gently slid Sherlock onto his back to level his airways. There was something under his shoulder though. Reaching to grab whatever it was, he recoiled and held his hand protectively, noticing blood forming on his finger. Lifting his arm up, he could identify the object.

_Oh no. Oh Sherlock no! _Lestrade's eyes misted with tears. If the bloodshot eyes and red, raw nose weren't enough evidence, the shattered glass of a used syringe made the answer concrete. Sherlock had overdosed on cocaine again.

"_999, what is your emergency?"_

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	2. Fraying

Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep… _S-s-shut Up-p… Shut Up! What is that infernal beeping sound?_

Sherlock opened his eyes. _Well… This looks a bit not good. Actually it looks very not good. Judging by the motions and sound I'd say ambulance. But why? Someone is holding my hand. Why?_

He turned his head. Every movement felt like an earthquake.

_Who is holding my hand? I can't see much but… It's a man… Grey h-hair… Strong grip…_

"Sherlock! Oh my god! You're okay, alright? You're going to be fine"

_L-Lestrade! His voice sounds distorted, it's too slow and sing-song. Why is he talking like that? Unless… he's not. I'm the one hearing it differently, then… But why?_

"Sherlock? Can you hear me? You've had an overdose but it is okay, you're going to be okay!"

_Oh no. I remember. The hallucinations. Mycroft. Moriarty. John!_

"J-j" Sherlock makes a weak attempt at speech.

_No. John… JOHN!_

_The beeping quickens. I assume the paramedics are reacting to the beeping. They seem worried_. _One of them is talking to Lestrade, he tightens his grip on my hand and buries his face in the other. The paramedic comforts Lestrade, she looks sympathetic. Another one shouts._

"His heart rate is too high, he's losing too much blood so we'll have to sedate him!"

_Losing blood? _Sherlock uses the last of his strength to look down at himself. His red shirt has been opened halfway down. _Wait… I don't have a red shirt. _Taking another look, he realises the lash gash by his ribs. _Bugger._

A sharp sting in his arm, then the world goes black.

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John walked towards the doors, on his way out until—

"Excuse me sir!"

John stepped out of the way apologetically to let the hurried paramedics wheel a gurney past. There was a man in it but his head was turned away, however he seemed familiar. _Never mind, probably a coincidence. _

"John! When did you get here?" called out a guttural voice, _Greg!_

"Um, yesterday. Mary's having the baby premature, what are you doing here?"

The DI looked away for a moment to collect himself and then depicted the whole story from the start. At that moment, John could feel his life exploding into tiny fragments, destroyed beyond repair. So he let the darkness descend.

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"John? John, mate. You alright?"

_Ow. My head and back… Feels like I'm being balanced on a garden fence._

"Sorry about the chairs, but y'know, it was that or the floor." Lestrade laughed half-heartedly.

In silence, they got some coffee from the cafeteria that tasted like coal.

"I'm sorry to hear that you're girl's premature."

"Yeah, she'll be fine though. It's Mary who's really in trouble. 'Probably won't make it"

"Sorry, mate" Greg enveloped John's shoulder in a large, reassuring bear paw.

"Excuse me, are you two gentlemen with Sherlock Holmes?" called out a young woman in purple scrubs, softly as she looked down at her clipboard.

Rising to their feet, alertly, they nodded, rendered speechless with a cocktail of anticipation and fear.

"Okay, well he's pulled through and stable at the moment," Greg could feel all the tension in John's sloped shoulders evaporate. "He overdosed on cocaine and the convulsions caused him to fracture two ribs, one fragment pierced through his left hypochondriac region and caused major blood loss. There will be no long term effects, however. He did have quite severe hyperthermia earlier, it has mostly been treated but he still has a minor fever.

"Um, before you go in, may I ask you a few questions regarding Mr Holmes' wellbeing?"

"Uh, yes, okay"

"Does he take care of himself properly? Like, does he eat regularly and get enough sleep?"

John shifted his weight onto his other foot uncomfortably.

"Well no. Not really. He, um, when he's on cases—he's a detective by the way-, he doesn't eat. They usually last 3 or 4 days. But I haven't seen him in two months so I really don't know." John averted his gaze, ashamed of abandoning his friend in his time of need.

"Okay thank you sirs. You may go in."

The two men entered the room. Sherlock lay on the cheap hospital bed, restricted by the iron bars of the taut blankets. His already gaunt frame was left skeletal and ivory, his dark hair was flaccid and was plastered to his damp forehead. Winding tubes did all of the living as the detective just lay in a suspended state of life. An IV threaded through his right forearm like marionette strings, a pulse oximeter clamped on his left forefinger and an endotracheal tube ran between his slightly bloodied nostrils. The suffocating smell of disinfectant burned through John's nose and random beeps of machinery echoed around his head.

Greg looked toward John, he couldn't read any expression on his face. Maybe he was in shock? Lestrade turned back to Sherlock and choked back tears as he saw the 19 year old, Police Academy dropout dressed in acid washed jeans and thread-bare hoodie.

_He knew he recognised him somewhere. The semi unconscious teen proffered his wrist to be handcuffed without a fight. His eyes were glassy and bloodshot and his arm was lifeless and light._

"_No it is ok, Gregson. I'll interrogate him myself." He sat the misty-eyed brunet in his office._

"_So kid. What was a young man like yourself doing in a crack den?"_

"_Existing." He replied curtly._

_Lestrade retained a chuckle. "Ok this is driving me crazy, where have I seen you before?"_

"_Three years, 2 months and 28 days ago at a stupid mandatory police academy for 'Troubled Kids' to get them interested in law enforcement. I was the annoying dick who tin foiled his ankle tag and left out of the window." He replied in his monotonous baritone._

_What? This kid was extraordinary! Lestrade couldn't even remember what he'd had for lunch._

"_I remember you! Sherlock Holmes! You were a genius, so why are you living in a crack den?"_

"_I'm not a freak there I guess…"_

"_What did you say that you wanted to be again?"_

"_Consulting detective"_

"_Okay, Sherlock Holmes! I'll let you off on a caution, you clean up your act and I'll let you consult on a case. How's that?"_

_He looked up, eyes boring into his with confusion "Why?"_

"_I don't like to see genius wasted, kid"_

Greg hated seeing the kid who was just like a son to him in so much pain; even more that it was self-inflicted. When Sherlock arrived on Greg's crime scenes you could see the corners of his mouth twitch with curiosity and well concealed glee; you could see his mind reeling in the possibilities of the mystery. He wasn't thinking now. Barely living.

"Mr Watson! Please come quickly it is Mary!" A nurse burst through the door.

"Oh my god"

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Time of death 9:32. John held the cooling hand of Mary Morstan for the last time.

"How's the baby?" asked John, feebly.

"She is okay, a few minor respiratory problems but after a while in the incubator and she'll be okay"

John looked down at her daughter. She was frail but beautiful. Large blue eyes bore into his own like a perfect reflection. Her tiny starfish like hands reached out to grab his, they barely covered his fingertip.

_Caitlyn Watson._


	3. Promise

_Again with the hand holding? It's not Lestrade though, slim slender fingers and could fit two side by side in my palm… A woman's? _

Sherlock opened his eyes only to be greeted with searing, blinding light. He blinked a few times to adjust his eyes to the light. He had been floating in and out of consciousness for a few days after his admission, he wouldn't have minded apart from having to readjust to the surroundings every time…

"Sherlock"

Head feeling as heavy as a tonne of bricks, he slowly turned to face the unknown guest. He couldn't see very well; everything looked like it was underwater. The lady had fluffy brown hair and had a London accent. Donovan? No. Incorrect. Why would the woman who he pissed of the most be here?

"Yes it's me. Sherlock?"

His eyes focused. It was Donovan. Why? Why did nothing make sense in this godforsaken hell hole?

"Sherlock… Why did you overdose?"

"W-w-what?"

"Why did you do it? You're careful, you'd never mess something like this up. Why did you overdose?"

"…..Fear"

"Fear?"

He nodded weakly. "T-they kept talking to me… They wouldn't stop… It hurt." His drug addled mind wouldn't shut up. _Shut up! Why are you telling her all this?_

She shifted in her chair, "Sherlock. What were they saying?"

"Freak. Boring. Stupid… M-m-machine…"

Sally sat aghast. She was thankful for the drugs disabling his filter but she was at the verge of tears of how close she'd come to killing him. At long last, she saw Sherlock for what he really was under all the layers, frightened. A bullied kid hiding, bruises from where he was kicked, tears from where he was shouted at sneered at.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry…"

"Why?" Sherlock sat up in surprise. "I am an ass, I deserved it." He stated, turning his head in confusion.

"Don't ever say that. Please, never."

The gaunt man looked intensely at the young DI, inquisitive.

"Sherlock, the last man I knew who said that he deserved that…"

"What…?"

"He died!" her head snapped up revealing the glistening slivers of tears on her waterlines.

"My little brother, Frederick, was bullied. He was too kind and just took whatever people said and said he deserved it. He just let it all pile up and one day, he cracked."

Sherlock and Sally connected their gaze.

"Overdosed on heroin. Please Sherlock… Never say that you deserve it." The brunette leaned forward and encircled the lanky detective in a firm hug. Taken aback at one of his mortal enemies' sign of compassion, it took him a few moments to hug her back. After the initial rigidness, Sherlock succumbed to the aromatic jasmine of her flesh and fall into her embrace.

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John left the ward holding his minute daughter in his arms. It had been a week since Caitlyn was born and she was progressing in leaps and bounds. The nurses recommended taking her on a short walk to introduce her to new surroundings- although the army doctor did wonder if she'd actually enjoy the repetitive beeps and whirs of the hospital.

Caitlyn made content purrs and gurgles at the forest of new faces and objects as John marvelled at his daughter's happy-go-lucky attitude. _God knows where she got that from…_ John was snapped out of his train of thought by a high pitched squeal, Caitlyn was grasping with her tiny pink fists at the door labelled 302. _Strange, that's Sherlock's room. Don't tell me you're a psychic as well._

John hadn't seen Sherlock yesterday, _maybe I should visit him… _He looked down at Caitlyn. _Hmm… She is quite quiet, I don't think he'd mind…_

Knock knock. "Sherlock?"

"Come in." John was greeted with the confusing tableau of Sally Donovan and Sherlock seeming mid-giggle. _Not a usual scene for 'mortal enemies'._

"Oh hi, John! Afraid you're too late if you want to have a serious chat, they've given him something and he won't stop giggling. Ok bye, guys!" Sally draped her coat over her crossed arms and waved as she left the room.

"We've made amends of sorts" stated Sherlock, sensing John's befuddlement.

"Oh right…"

"What is… that?" Sherlock strained his eyes at the small bundle nestled in the crook of John's elbow.

"W-what do you mean? Oh god, don't tell me you've deleted babies from your mind palace!" Sherlock blinked.

"Are you actually serious?" John stared into his friend's uncomprehending eyes trying to detect some sort of signal.

"No. Ha-ha I got you! Of course I know what a baby is, I've had one! Can I hold her?"

"What?!" John gaped incredulously at his complete sincerity.

"Pleeeease?" John placed Caitlyn in his arms absent-mindedly, still awe-struck.

"Um… Sherlock? What did you mean that you had one?"

"Heh this stuff is strange, it makes me tell people things. How do I—", Sherlock mumbled, pawing at his IV. Lifting his hand away gently before he inevitably hurt himself, John reasserted his question.

"Sherlock? What did you mean?"

"Fine! When I was 20 or so and I lived in a crack den I went out with a girl called Lucy who was homeless. She got pregnant and then ran away from me when she found out about my… uh…. Hobbies…" Sherlock chose his wording carefully noting his surroundings but spoke freely as his attention was on little Caitlyn.

"So um… Where are they now?" John enquired, treading lightly.

"Lucy's in a cemetery somewhere and my daughter… I don't know…" sadness clouded his piercing blue-green eyes. John's intuition told him to enfold his friend in a compact hug briefly without saying anything (John's super power was to know the perfect hug for anyone).

Sherlock's eyes darted up, as if he'd just remembered something.

"So… how are you doing? Y'know… About Mary?"

"How did you know?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Do you really want me to explain?"

"No-no it's fine."

"I just wanted to remind you that… I'll always be here to help you with her… Always"

"What?"

"I meant what I said, John, at your wedding. I'll always protect you."

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	4. Reunion

John recoiled from the scalding tea that his all-too-eager tongue had the misfortune of becoming acquainted with. The heated was messed up so all he had the strength to do was drink his tea in the cold temperature of autumnal Britain. Life was beginning to settle down again until…

_Briiiiiiiiiiiing. Briiiiiiiiiiiiiing._

"Hello, John Watson speaking?"

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Bumping into 3 people on the way, John tore through the thinning crowds of the 10 PM ICU. Bursting through the narrow corridor like a cannonball, he literally crashed into the sawdust smelling body of Greg Lestrade.

"John, come quick." Practically dragging the smaller man, Lestrade wrapped his arm around John's wrist and bolted towards one of the private rooms. Upon entering, John rubbed his eyes wearily as he saw Sherlock's exhausted figure hooked up to hundreds of machines.

He looked even worse than when he was first admitted. His forehead was glistening with sweat and his eyes were framed with the black crescents of exhaustion John had never seen so severe. Every vein was pronounced in his spectral arms. Most of his face was obscured by a heavy duty oxygen mask but the jagged precipices of his cheekbones were painfully visible. It was hard to imagine that this was the same man who only 2 weeks before could be found sprinting after taxis and tackling serial killers.

"W-what's going on?"

"Sir" the small nurse from a week before piped up. "I'm afraid Mr. Holmes' condition has gone downhill rapidly since yesterday and he's slipped into a coma. It's unlikely that he has long to live…"

John inhaled sharply and closed his eyes, begging for this all to be a dream. Pleading and pleading to be woken up in 221b Baker Street. Imploring to duck under the blue police tape and to marvel at the world's only consulting detective's intellectual prowess. Urged for his Sherlock back.

"H-how? How c-c-could t-this happen in o-o-one day-y?" murmured John under his breath.

The slow hum of the ventilator and the fearfully sparse beeps of the heart rate monitor accompanied the almost audible dread that bled from every surface.

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Curled up on the chair, John stared into the abyss waiting for the nightmare to end; he could feel Greg's gaze upon him soaking with pity. He didn't care.

The long whine of the machinery pierced the army doctor's abdomen like a gunshot. _His flat line!_

Knocking his chair over, John leaped to his feet and ran over to his friend, a deep cello plucking in between his ears muffling every other sound in this world.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" he barked. "Don't you dare. Don't you bloody dare!" He pushed the assistance button by his bedside with trembling hands. The doctors burst in and charged the defibrillators. Lestrade turned John away from the devastating scene. His weak body malleable in Lestrade's bear hug.

"I'm sorry—", the doctor started.

"NO! Please just… Just do something! Please!" he tore away from Lestrade. The doctors headed out of the room. John fell to his knees, a frail mess. He enveloped the detective's large but skeletal hand in his own, tears dropping onto the entwined extremities.

"Sherlock…" He mewed softly.

_Beep._

All heads snapped towards Sherlock.

"Don't move your hand!"

_Beep… Beep… Beep…_

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Sherlock looked up at the bleeding sky, oranges and purples and blacks and blues dripping into one another. Trees loomed over him, almost obscuring the sky completely. Rolling onto his front, he realised that he couldn't move his legs. _But… What's that?_

A strange apparition appeared. A translucent, white deer bounded about 20 metres in front of him. He didn't know why but his heart yearned for this deer. _But I can't move my legs… How can I get it?_

He crawled. The mud stung under his fingernails and he could feel the skin scraping off of his knees. _I don't care. I only care about one thing… _The deer turned its strong, graceful neck towards him, cocking its head to the side. Its quiet dignity and strong determination and elegance made his heart soar.

The deer wasn't 3 metres away now, he could feel himself bleeding all over his body and his arms collapsed underneath him. _Not… Far… Now… J-just… A… little…_

He rolled onto his side, sweating profusely and tasting blood on his lips. His eyelids were closing. His heart was slowing.

"Sherlock…." The voice called out causing Sherlock to open his eyes in confusion. From his blurred vision all he could make out was a ghostly white hand being proffered before him.

With all the strength he could muster he slid his bruised and grazed hand into the open palm let the wind take him forwards.

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A sharp gasp illuminated the room and Sherlock opened his eyes. He was surprised to see everyone staring at him.

"Oh my god…" exhaled John who had only just noticed that he'd been holding his breath as he dove into Sherlock wrapping him in his arms.

Sherlock rested his nose on top of John's head, inhaling the intoxicating scent. John raised his head so that their foreheads were touching. Both their noses reddened with bashfulness in unison and John giggled at the warm hue diffusing over Sherlock's cheeks.

Their gaze dropped at each other's mouths and sensing the shared desire, Sherlock tilted his head slightly to his left. John repeated and they moved forwards, their tension that had been building up for four years was slowly evaporating.

Their lips locked and John sighed in ecstasy as the tall brunet nibbled at his lower lip.

"Well fucking _finally! _Only took _FOUR YEARS! _Ha-ha… I'll leave you two to it then." Lestrade declared jokingly before leaving them be.

And Sherlock and John were left alone…


End file.
